Prolapse: to fall or slip down or out of place. As my disease grows, so do my breasts. The skin swells and swells, is tender to the touch. Purpling like over-ripened fruit. My abdomen is also tender, becomes distended. The men watch. They know there is something wrong with me. At night, I lie with my bedside lamp switched on. Touch the edge of my new nipple with my fingernail. I try to peel it off. In school, the teacher asks me to open the window. I reach, and there is a dropping sensation. The weight of an animal against my chest. I hope someone will come when I am sleeping. Carry them away in blankets.
This poem previously appeared in tract (Litmus Publishing, 2017)
Jane Hartshorn is a Glasgow-based writer. She has an MA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from the University of Kent and, in 2017, her first pamphlet tract was published by Litmus Publishing. She has had poems published in Front Horse, MAP Magazine, Raum, Gnommero, and Glasgow University's From Glasgow to Saturn.